


Happenstance

by seawards



Category: Being Human, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-25
Updated: 2009-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seawards/pseuds/seawards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vampire, an angel, a duck pond, and the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happenstance

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by neptuneskisses: Mitchell/Castiel, thunderstorm. (I think a little bit of Good Omens snuck in there as well.)

There's something about the man in the trenchcoat that catches Mitchell's attention. It's a bit like the shiver of recognition when he runs into a wolf who isn't George, like how he knew that kelpie back in Edinburgh was more than just a busty lifeguard. It's not just the scent, though that's part of it, familiar copper of blood cut with something else, dark musk or wet moss or – something. He's never smelled anything like this before though, tang of ozone and something thinly sweet, clear like a bell even from across the road.

Mitchell knows better than to do this, he does, but he can't help himself – he turns and trails the man, off the road and into a little park. There's a pond there, and there are ducks in the pond, and the man ... is throwing breadcrumbs at them. He looks up, unsurprised, and Mitchell walks towards him without even really meaning to.

Looking at him close up undoes something in Mitchell's chest; it's like sunlight on his skin, in his eyes, slicing pain all tangled up with a harsh longing for something he can't even name.

His sight dims and sharpens as his eyes shift to black, body priming itself for a fight that he doesn't think is going to happen. "What _are_ you?" he moans.

The man tilts his head, considers him carefully for a moment. "I have no business with you, John Mitchell," he finally says. He touches his hand to Mitchell's cheek. It should hurt, should burn, but it's nothing but a dry, gentle brush of skin against skin. "At least not yet. Go in peace."

And Mitchell does, forgetting as he walks away. It's not until much later, amid the burning ruins of Bristol, that he meets another angel, and remembers, and understands.


End file.
